


the always-man

by thepessimisticasshole



Category: Carry On - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-29
Updated: 2015-12-29
Packaged: 2018-05-10 02:28:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5565733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepessimisticasshole/pseuds/thepessimisticasshole
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>and repeat. and repeat. and repeat and repeat and repeat-</p><p>he's older than the stars.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the always-man

**Author's Note:**

> disclaimer: all characters belong to rainbow rowell

baz falls asleep on his thirtieth birthday, and it’s normal. 

he gets a kiss from simon, and a impish grin, and he falls asleep and it’s _normal_. and he’s happy. 

he wakes up wrong.

* * *

he opens his eyes to velvety darkness and oppressive cold, and something feels off.

so he listens, hard- it’s completely silent. there’re no early morning bumps from the neighbors- there’s not even quiet breaths coming from simon.

there’s no simon at all, actually.

and his bed isn’t the queen he fell asleep in last night- it’s enormous. and the sheets are silk, and the comforter is heavy and thick and expensive. 

he calls fire to his hand, and sits- and that’s when he sees.

he’s back in his old room, massive bed dwarfing him.

and the hand holding the fire is small, and pale, and smooth. no scars, no marks. 

nothing.

he stumbles up, slides out of bed and dashes to the mirror.

and the flickering firelight illuminates wide grey eyes and shocked marble features- but young, smooth and perfect and-

he’s not 30 anymore.

he doesn’t know what he is.

* * *

he’s eleven years old and it’s his first day of watford. 

so he’s bustled out the door, grabbing his trunk mutely, hugging a very pregnant daphne- _that’s mordelia_ , he thinks. _that’s mordelia._ \- and sliding into the car.

“today’s your first day of school,” begins his father severely, and baz can remember this. “and you’re going to make us proud. understand?”

and he gives his speech, but baz isn’t listening.

he’s heard it all before.

* * *

arriving at watford feels like a punch in the stomach.

the gate looms in front of him, cold iron, and all his father has to do is put his hand on it. 

“blood magic will always allow you in, basilton. you’re a pitch.” 

baz feels disconnected from the world, his limbs tingling. the last twenty years can’t have been a dream, they-

“father,” he says, almost startling at how high his voice is, “the mage’s heir- simon snow- he’s going to school with me, correct?”

his father sneers. “he will. i expect you to respond in such a way that it will make the Families proud?”

“of course, father,” murmurs baz. 

* * *

“i trust you can find your way around school yourself?”

he’s led him through the basics, which of course baz already knows, and baz remembers the twinge of fear that he had felt last time. this time, of course, he knows it all- he nods numbly. 

“write home,” he adds. “your mother will like to hear from you.”

baz nods again, and watches his father walk away.

he feels so small. 

* * *

he can feel the glares of the parents around him. 

“ _i’m eleven years old_ ,” he wants to say. “ _nothing’s been decided yet._ ”

and he doesn’t know _why_ he’s eleven- maybe to do better, this time. 

maybe to fix everything that went wrong. 

* * *

it’s a shock when he sees simon, eleven years old with messy curls and wide blue eyes and baggy jeans. he’s got that red rubber ball clutched tight in his fist. baz feels a pang, deep in his chest.

he misses his own simon.

but he goes over to this version, and tucks his hair behind his ears shyly. simon looks at him, with more curiosity than hostility.

“you’re the mage’s heir, right?” of course.

“yeah,” says simon.

“i’m basiton pitch. baz.” and he holds his hand out to shake. simon looks at it, shakes it.

“simon snow.” 

and baz wanders away.

they can talk more, after the crucible. 

* * *

he shakes hands right away this time.

there’s no posturing, he doesn’t care. simon grins at him.

“well, at least we sort of know each other, right?”

“yeah,” baz agrees absently. 

* * *

“you talk like you’re a grownup,” says simon thoughtfully. baz looks at him, raising an eyebrow. “like, not in the ‘you’re so posh’ way,” simon clarifies, “although you are really posh, yeah- i mean, you sound like how a grownup sounds, all the time. i dunno how to explain it.”

“i suppose i know what you mean,” says baz, and simon points.

“see that, right there? you just do.” simon frowns. “maybe it’s your tone.”

baz shrugs, and simon lets it go.

* * *

“you’re holding your wand wrong,” says baz. simon glances over.

“how would you know? we haven’t even started class yet.”

“ah- previous training,” baz says. it’s not exactly a lie.

* * *

“baz-”

“yes, snow?”

“simon. it’s simon.”

baz rolls his eyes. “fine- yes, _simon_?”

simon grins, satisfied with this small victory, then sobers. “why’re you always so sad?”

baz blinks. “i’m sorry?”

“well-” simon’s blushing now, faintly, but he plows on. “well, you always seem like you’re waiting for something. and when you talk to me, it’s like sometimes you forget and you’re talking to someone else, that’s sort on me, but. they’re not. and it just feels like you miss someone, a lot.”

baz looks down- simon’s remarkably perceptive sometimes. even at this age. “i do.”

“is it your mum?” simon’s voice is quiet.

“no, simon, it’s not my mum.” _it’s you_ , he wants to add- but he can’t. _it’s you, and i miss you so much i can hardly stand it._

* * *

he’s woken up by hands on his shoulders and a high voice and worried blue eyes in the darkness and at first he thinks it’s cherry.

“baz- baz, wake up!”

but it’s not cherry- it’s the young simon. 

and baz is crying, great wracking sobs that shake his whole body.

he misses them so much.

“baz, why’re you crying?”

he doesn’t answer, gulping air through his too-tight throat. 

“you were yelling- you said cherry, and you said james, and you said my name.” his voice is small, and tentative. “but you said it different than you do when you’re awake. or paying attention.”

“i-i’m sorry,” gasps baz, and simon’s face drops.

“you don’t have to be sorry, baz, i’m helping you. who are they?”

“i-” he pauses, then bursts out: “i miss them so _much_.”

“who?”

“cherry. and james. and you- but different. you’re older, and i’m older, and we’re married.”

simon’s eyes are big. “older- married? how do you miss-”

“i went to bed thirty years old,” says baz. “and i woke up eleven. and i can’t go back. and i want to go back, i want to go _back_ \- i didn’t get to say goodnight to james, simon put him to sleep, and cherry’s room still needs painting, and i just want to _see_ simon-” his face crumples and he’s crying again. now the little simon is too.

“ _i’m_ simon.”

“i know you are,” whispers baz. “i’m sorry.” and he pulls out his wand, and taps simon’s thick curls. 

“go to bed, love. **you didn’t see anything**.” he gulps back another sob. “i’m so sorry.”

* * *

“simon, love, can you please stop moving my soap? i know it’s you.”

the clattering in the bathroom stop abruptly, and simon sticks his ead out of the door. his hair’s a mess and is cheeks are spotted with red, and he’s staring at baz in bemusement. baz stares back, eyebrow raised.

“what?”

“you called me ‘love’,” accuses simon.

“no i didn’t,” says baz.

“yeah you did, i _heard_ you.”

“don’t be silly; why would it?”

simon draws his head back in, eyebrows scrunched together.

* * *

it’s his third year, again, and he can’t get out of bed.

he hasn’t seen his children, he hasn’t seen his husband in three years. he feels like there are weights tied to his limbs, and his eyelids, and his heart.

“baz, you’ve gotta get out of bed.”

“why?” baz’s voice is dull.

simon face is crumpled with worry. “you’re missing classes, baz, and you’re missing _food_ \-  you just have to.”

baz rolls over.

* * *

_maybe this will bring me back,_ he thinks, looking at the flickering fire in his palm _. maybe this will bring me back. please, god, let it bring me back._

_please._

he sparks into light and burns away.

and he wakes up in his too big bed in his too big home, eleven years old again.

* * *

there’re a lot of ways this goes. 

like, sometimes he makes it to thirty. and he goes to sleep on his birthday, sometimes sobbing and whimpering and sometimes numb.

and sometimes he tries to fight it, drinking coffee and caffeine and everything that might help- but as soon as he goes to sleep, everything’s gone.

“sweetheart, darling,” he tells the children. “tomorrow i’ll be gone. i don’t know how it works for you, okay? i don’t know if i disappear from your life forever, or if you’re even real.”

and he’s crying now. james puts his little hand on baz’s cheek.

“papa?”

“i’m going away, and i’m going to miss you so much.” just like he misses the last ones. and the ones before that.

they’re never quite the same.

“be good for your dad, okay? i love you. i love you so, _so_ much.”

* * *

he’s ancient, and he’s seen it all.

sometimes he befriends simon on the first day. sometimes he doesn’t. it doesn’t matter. 

it always turns out the same.

he’s been through the war, and the barren apocalypse afterward. he’s seen paridise. he’s followed his first time through to the letter, recalling conversations and fights and insults even through centuries that are only real to him. he’s killed. he’s murdered.

somewhere along the way, he’s lost his sanity.

* * *

“i think i’m older than the world.”

“what?”

“i think i’m older than the world, and the stars. i’ve touched the _sun,_ simon snow. do you know what that feels like?”

“no-”

“it feels like the end, and it feels like the beginning.”

and simon squints, wrinkling his nose. he doesn’t believe him.

baz doesn’t care.

* * *

“get me out of here. you have to get me out of here- god, please, i’ll do _anything_.”

* * *

“her name will be mordelia,” he tells daphne in monotone. “and she will look like you. and she will go into my room without knocking, and play the flute, and she will stubborn and headstrong. and do you want to know how she’ll die?”

daphne is looking at him, shocked and horrified, and baz tells her, and she cries. 

he doesn’t care.

* * *

nothing matters in a world that can be reset at a flicker of flames. 

 


End file.
